


Fear, Itself

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [10]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Character Development Throughout the Years, First Meetings, Gen, Gotham State University, Past Relationship(s), Psychological/Physical Abuse, References to Batman Year One, Results of Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 10:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17979581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: “It is a gift,” her fingers secure the chill of old coin-metal within his palm; there is a hard gleam in her eyes which silently dares him to refuse, “and I would have you keep it.”





	Fear, Itself

_Thirteen years ago: Gotham City_

“Is the meter out?”

In the span of two seconds, with the punctuation of four words, Jonathan Crane goes from silently cursing out the meter (and several other existing circumstances, not least of which is the biting night chill) to locking in a defensive posture. The woodland outskirts which make up his family’s acreage are protection, but an empty street in the city’s heart is no place to be chatting up strangers.

Apparently, this woman doesn’t share the opinion.

Appreciating beauty has never been Jonathan’s strong suite; he can take notice when a female classmate is dressed in a way intended to elicit said-response, but he just never paid much attention. Books are his comfort; he is the student (or was, before Dad changed that) found in the library for long hours, or under a tree with a great mass of literature. The only women he truly appreciates are Scarlett O’Hara, Lady Macbeth, and Anna Karenina.

This said, there is something about this woman which…calls to him.

“…Yeah.” He says softly; his posture doesn’t outwardly change, but the vow of silence is cracked, “I…I guess I didn’t bring enough change.” It’s a one-dimensional excuse: any money he has these days is a handout from a paltry allowance. Dad controls the money. Dad controls…everything.

“Are you not cold?” she speaks differently than other people, and if he racks his brain hard enough, he can identify the accent as distinctly European.

“…I guess.” Just to make a liar out of him, a tremor runs visibly through his limbs. The air is cold, the wind doesn’t help, and he didn’t bring a coat.

“I am certain your truck is warmer than the night air.” She smiles at him; one hand gloved in black leather closes over his and he feels the warm weight of coins in palm. “Feed the meter. Then take shelter.”

Gotham isn’t a place to make talk with strangers, but desperate times call for desperate measures and this is no time to look a gift horse in the mouth. He urgently stuffs the coins, one by one, inside the slot with as much stability as can be found with half-numb fingers. Relief finally comes to see four more hours added to the timeline.

But there is still one coin left. “Here,” he holds it out to her, “you gave me too much.”

She smiles once more. Her gloved hands encircle his one palm in a cradle of black leather. “Consider it a gift between friends.”

Jonathan stares at her, then blinks twice. “…We’re friends?”

“Of course we are, sweet boy.” Her smile says there can be no doubt of this statement’s truth. “Two friends enjoying this moment, when nothing is amiss.”

_There is something amiss…_ inside that building, where chlorine water has been chosen as a woman’s grave, there is something terribly amiss. His mouth opens, the words there on his tongue, and then he slowly swallows each one into silence. Strangely enough, he can’t shake the feeling that this woman knows; she knows the inaccuracy of her words, and yet she does not interrogate. They are, truly, just two people (two friends) enjoying a moment.

But every moment comes to an end, and no moment is as its predecessor.

“Jonathan,” 

A cool hand rests over his eyes. Instinct prompts him to look, to see, even when he knows his sight is stolen. It is more a blessing and a curse, his sight: with it, he catches glimpses of the world which exists beyond him, and equally is overwhelmed by visions of a world wherein he is the sole occupant.

“Do not seek your sight, Jonathan.” The voice is soft, distinctly female, and…with an accent? “Your eyes lie to you, now. Listen instead to my voice.”

The voice…and he knows this voice. “It’s you…” his voice sounds weak, overused from screaming; the vocal chords strain to produce any sound now. In place of words, he settles for touch: both hands reach blindly for skin, clothing, anything tangible. He finds, first, the hem of a sleeve; then, beneath, the willowy build of an arm and shoulder. The latter is what he clings to, like a lifeline in his private storm.

Time bleeds in and out of focus; there are too many voices belonging to too many people speaking at too many different moments. He sleeps, or at least closes his eyes, but can’t separate the waking moments from the unconscious. The only distinctive presence is her: her voice, her scent of honey and winter, the slender comfort of her hand. Her, without a name, has become the rock to which he clings.

“What do you even know of this woman?” she speaks at a distance, and she’s not talking to him. Her tone is harsh, bitter, not the soothing vocal caress which often breaks Terror’s grip on his psyche.

“She’s the only family he has.” A man answers her; his voice is familiar, but without much in the way of identification. Jonathan could only affirm he’s heard this man’s voice before, and that’s it.

“You would have him travel miles and miles to Georgia, in this condition?” _Georgia…_ his mother came from Georgia. What family will claim him there? He doesn’t know his mother’s family, “He is safer here, in this place.”

“He’s fifteen, Iris.” The man speaks her name and Jonathan clings to it with the frantic grasp of memory, “There’s nothing we can do.”

“ _I_ will take him in.” her tone is saturated with vehemence, and Jonathan’s heart swells with affection until it leaks from his eyes, “He will stay here, with me. With us. We will become his family.”

A pause. “We have no legal rights to him, Iris.”

“To _hell_ with the law!” she is angry for him; her anger expels through the air, radiating like a hot summer night. He used to spend summer nights on the roof, staring up at the sky and counting stars for no other reason than just to do it. “This is his life we speak of, James!”

“My hands are tied, Iris!”

“Your hands are tied by your law,” the anger spits from her lips as coals from fire, “and your law is _wrong_.”

The sharp hiss of a closing door is more pronounced; he imagines she wished to slam it, as an outward emphasis to her rage, but the construction does not allow for it. Silence follows, until he can bear it no more. “Iris…”

In a flash, she’s there. “You must listen to me, Jonathan,” her voice is soft once more, “you will be sent away soon. I do not wish it, and if I could, I would deny the possibility.”

“…I know…” in this moment, when time ticks away in an ominous countdown before his life is upheaved yet again, he clings to every word as God’s truth, “I know.”

“No matter what happens next,” she continues, and he feels something cool pressed deep into his palm; reflexively, he tightens fingers around the object and finds the circular shape of a coin, “you must hold fast to this. To the promise made that night, and the promise made now: that Gotham is your home, and you will find sanctuary with me, always.”

Home. Sanctuary. Tears bubble and spill from beneath closed lids, “Friends…my friend.” _My world_ , he does not add, but the kiss to his brow assures that she still heard him.

***

_Nine years ago: Keeny Manor, Georgia_

The warbling strains of ‘Amazing Grace’ echo in the distance; each step puts Granny closer to the house and further from the chapel. Soon, there is only silence: the calm before the storm; the peace before his final exorcism shall commence.

Jonathan lifts eyes to the sky. The aviary is a gaping broken maw of cracked glass and jutting posts. The sky is dark blue smeared liberally with dove-grey and peppered with tiny black shadows. The shadows will not be so diminutive for long, no will the collective shape be at a distance before the hour strikes. In place of the terror which once seized him to see Death swarming from the unfeeling heaven, there is now only apathy: the resigned acceptance of a condemned man when he observes the Grim Reaper approach.

_“This is your final lesson, Jonathan.” Granny says; her gnarled fingers pull the folds tight until each line is in its proper place. The suit which he once wore, three years earlier, was burned upon losing its usefulness. His delayed growth spurt has rendered most clothes unusable, but only this suit was replaced. “Remember it well, when you leave this hallowed place for the Devil’s realm.”_

The Devil’s realm…but the devil lives within crumbling foundations, the merciless heat of Georgia’s sun, and the threads of Sunday suits soaked in the blood of pestilence. If the devil prowls throughout the rest of the world, he surely makes permanent residence here.

The shadows grow larger: ink blots on the sky’s canvas. His fingers absently brush the cigarette burn on his left wrist. It is the only one visible; the others stretch higher up the arm.

_“Give ya a choice, Scarecrow,” the stale stink of cigarettes washes over his cheek from behind, “you, or the book.”_

_Books are precious to him. He cannot sacrifice them. His body is expendable. His body is already scarred and broken and violated. Books must be preserved._

_Besides, it only hurts for a minute._

The shadows grow ever large. Now, he can see the silhouette of black wings fluttering frantic. The collective voice is loud, abrasive on the ears, and still a mockery: _We are coming._

_“Filth,” Granny spits the word across the table, “So like your mother.”_

_The mother he knew is a blasphemous myth here. In this house, Karen Keeny was a whore who conceived in sin and birthed a son seized by demons. Her kindness, her gentle speech, the scent of chocolate-chip cookies on special occasions, are banned from mention. There are nights when Jonathan believes none of it was real; that he has never lived in a place outside of Keeny Manor._

Then he holds the coin in his hand, and he remembers another place.

The first crow is followed by a dozen more. Fingers fold the coin in a tight grip, and he closes his eyes.

***

_Four years ago: Gotham State University_

“You show great promise, Jonathan.” The thick but neatly-trimmed hairs of Professor Pigeon’s bearded face lift in a comforting curve. “I have utmost faith that you will excel in this career.”

The professor calls it a career, but for Jonathan it is liberation: a promise of new beginnings and eradication of the past. The scars are carefully veiled in a thrift store suit (all remaining funds went to the tailor), and the broken speech patterns of a boy tormented by demons of mind and flesh have been painstakingly cultured under the tutelage of Marx, Jung, Piaget, Bandura, and Erikson, with extracurricular assistance from Dickens, Hugo, and Joyce. No longer the hunched profile of youth, he stands tall, painfully so in a crowd, with the long limbs mocked on the schoolyard now put to better use with impassioned gesticulations in the classroom.

“I will not disappoint you, Professor.” Jonathan murmurs, tone filled with respect for his mentor, and accepts the man’s hand in a formal gesture.

“The faculty is having a celebratory drink at South Bar.” Pigeon continues with a friendly hand on his shoulder, “Come join us.”

He respectfully declines. Frivolity is a waste of precious time and energy. More importantly, he has a different rendezvous to make.

The man who answers the door is substantial in form; dark-haired and dressed in pinstripe, he has the same build as those subliminal bullies in high school but examines Jonathan without the same derision. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Iris DeLaine.” Jonathan answers; his tone is soft. “Is she available for a short audience?”

As a principle, he does not waste words; when he requests a short audience, he quite means it. Five minutes, at the most. Time, like the gift of speech, is not to be wasted.

As time changed him, so time has changed her. Not in appearance, for she has lost no detail of the memory from years ago, but in mannerisms: regal, self-assured, and elegant, she sits a queen of her realm upon a throne of Italian leather and mahogany. Her blue eyes, uncommonly pale and bright in the descending sunlight, lift to find him in her threshold, and a dark red curve stretches across a pale face.

“Jonathan,” she stands in a billow of ebony and silver with arms extended, “come. Let me look at you.”

“I won’t take much of your time.” He promises, “I simply came to return a kindness once paid.” Long thin fingers extend the coin to her; its dulled silver no longer gleams.

Iris blinks, slowly. “I see we are short on pleasantries. As you like.” Her movements are delicate but precise, as she directs him to take a seat before joining herself. “I confess disappointment, and a bit of grief, when I heard you returned to Gotham but did not make this reunion a priority.”

Her honesty is refreshing; he has developed little tolerance for those at the university who believe saccharine assurances are the route to take in conversation. “You were establishing yourself in one sphere; I established myself in another. It was nothing personal.”

“This,” she nods, briefly, at the coin, “is anything but impersonal, Jonathan. It is, in effect, a termination of what once was.”

A frown pinches his eyebrows, “Your rendered kindness carried me through the torrents of Hell, Iris.” She does not seek specifics. “For that, there is no effective repayment at my disposal.”

“Then your response, instead, is to inform me that the usefulness of this kindness, and the memories attached thereto, have outlived usefulness.”

The frown creases deeper. “I assumed this fact went both ways. You did not seek me out in turn.”

Her mouth lifts in a self-depreciating curve. “Guilty, as charged.” Iris concedes, “But my pleasure to see you now is genuine.”

“As is my offering.”

“Of that, I am assured.” She closes the short distance with a single gesture, “And yet the fact remains as always: it is a gift,” her fingers secure the chill of old coin-metal within his palm; there is a hard gleam in her eyes which silently dares him to refuse, “and I would have you keep it.” 

The study doors open with a flurried movement, and a child of prepubescent years rushes forward into Iris’ arms, “Mama!” she cries out, and Jonathan contracts at the two-syllabic title. _Mama…_

“ _Ma belle_ ,” she says softly, with tender kisses to her brow, “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine: this is Jonathan Crane.”

The child is pale-skinned like her mother, with a head of gold tumbling in loose curls to her waist. “Hello, Jonathan.” Her tone of speech is polite and cultured, extraordinarily so for one so young. “Nice to meet you.”

“…Likewise.” He offers a thin smile, “You are quite a lovely young woman.” It sounds like an appropriate thing to say; his exposure to children of this age is extremely limited.

She beams and slides off her mother’s lap to dip into a curtsey, “Thank you!”

Iris kisses her daughter’s head again, “ _Petite_ , why don’t you go get your afternoon lessons? Jonathan and I will be finished shortly.”

With perfect obedience, the child flutters out of the room as easily as she entered. Jonathan watches her leave, then slowly drags his eyes back to the conceiver. “You were not shy about outward affection with her.”

He says it in the tone of an accusation, and she hears as much. “I love my daughter.” She answers, as though that explains everything.

“My father loved me too.”

Iris blinks, very slowly, and her posture changes in the time it takes him to blink. “And your great-grandmother didn’t.”

“A detail which holds no relevance.” Jonathan says, this time with a note of finality, and stands, “Thank you for your time.” He pockets the coin in a good faith gesture, and then walks toward the door.

“Jonathan.”

His fingers brush the polished brass, then pause as she continues, “Do not allow what you hate, define who you are.”

He exhales slowly, then takes hold of the door handle, “Goodbye, Iris.”

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure - Dr. Jonathan Crane is, in any incarnation, my absolute favorite of the Batman Rogues. I am looking very forward to putting him in a central role in the future; alas, for this round, he will play a small part with promises of much more. To create a blend of the different depictions of the "psycho psychologist", I'm referencing Gotham and Batman: Year One to develop his backstory. Please enjoy. Comments are love!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no characters, events, etc. related to Gotham or the Batman franchise. I'm just playing in the sandbox.


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